


False Light and Ashes

by gwendolynflight



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-04-08 02:13:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14094819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwendolynflight/pseuds/gwendolynflight
Summary: When Julia throws Quentin to Reynard, the others don’t get there in time, and Quentin does not get out unscathed.





	1. Chapter 1

It started as a tightness between Quentin’s shoulder blades. He didn’t even really notice it at first. A soreness after lifting heavy things – but that wasn’t even unusual. 

It got worse.

By the time he was helping Daniel build a pyramid, carrying the tall ladder and the surprisingly heavy mirror, the pain was a constant. A nagging ache. He thought at first it was the unusual level of exertion – marathon sex spells with Emily Greenstreet, an hour of his silly Cirque du Soleil routine, lifting the construction supplies. 

Then Alice revealed herself, and explained what had happened.

The pain got worse, after that. As she got stronger. Or he got weaker.

The pain became an all-consuming thing. Alice as a Niffin was a being of pure magical power. The trap, built for a mere cacodemon, barely held the strength of her, the sheer power of her caged by Quentin’s flesh and Quentin’s bones.

He could feel her testing the tensile strength of his ribs, a creak beneath his left collar bone. He felt himself growing … brittle.

It grew worse after she bargained for use of his body. Whatever she was doing with the time, it weakened him. There was a … strain. He could feel it in his heart, maybe, or his lungs. He felt scraped thin, stretched. By the time he started bleeding, he knew the end was near.

Not the end of her. God, no. If she had her way, she’d go on forever, eternal, sailing the stars and seeking knowledge long after the sun went super nova and consumed the earth.

Compared to all that desire, all that will, and Quentin had nothing, was nothing, just this increasingly fragile cage of flesh and bone that she seemed eager to tear through like so much distaff.

He felt like that sometimes. Used up. Not worth much, these days.

Who was he kidding. He’d never been worth much.

But even so, he was feeling physically thin. See through. Scraped out like parchment. Even so, it had been a surprise when Kady had punched him and he’d woken already chained in the werewolf cage next to Josh. 

It was a touch more surprising when he lost time again, for no obvious reason. He’d been talking to Jules, and then he’d woken up in the medical ward on a gurney, head splitting, handcuffed. 

“Wh- what?” he tried to ask.

An alarm started to blare somewhere in the distance. “Lockdown,” Professor Lipson said, alarmed. 

“The wards are down,” the Dean said, reaching a hand out. Lipson grabbed it and led him toward the door, and Quentin realized everyone was running, there were people dashing across the lawn outside, he could hear screaming. A closer alarm sounded, sending a shrieking pain through his already aching head. He writhed on the gurney, wanting to clutch at his throbbing temples but trapped by the handcuffs. The cold metal bit into his wrists. 

Julia cast at the cuffs, and they opened with dual clicking sounds. “Come on,” she said. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

Quentin moved on the bed, trying to lift himself up but failing. “Jules,” he gasped, grasping weakly at the sheets. 

She looked around the ward, as if for help; but they were already alone, the lawn outside emptying as people got to safety, and she wrapped an arm around his shoulder, helping him up. Her other arm reached under his knees, helping him maneuver his legs off the bed when he was too weak to manage. For just a moment, he thought she’d carry him out of there, she seemed so determined. 

But then his feet hit the floor, and the pain whited out any thought.

They were moving when he could pay attention again. She had a shoulder wedged into his armpit, and was taking most of his weight. He tried to help. His feet were dragging a little, and he kept losing track of what they were doing. Julia was trying to explain something to him. As they limped across campus, she explained that she had a plan to kill Reynard, even with magic on the fritz. He wasn’t quite following. The alarm was like the aural equivalent of a strobe light, and he was almost nauseous with the pain of it. 

“You have a nuclear bomb inside you, Q,” Jules was saying enthusiastically as he tuned in again, and he faltered.

“What, you mean Alice?”

“I talked to her. She’s a killing machine right now. Tell her you want to make a deal – she kills Reynard, she goes free.”

“Wait, no, Jules, I can’t …”

She looked behind him. 

They were in a breezeway between the admin building and the caf, and for a moment he was confused, hadn’t someone been saying they needed to get to the lab, what was Jules looking at, and he tried to look around. 

There were footsteps behind them, coming up fast. Something in Jules’ expression changed, and he started to ask her what was wrong. But then she said, “Do it now, Q, or we’re all dead.”

And the world upended, spun around, and he hit the floor, hard.

Jules had shoved him?

He looked at her, confused – and then a man appeared, just a little taller than him, ginger, unassuming – except for his eyes, which were amber with large verticle pupils, like a fox’s eyes. Quentin took all this in almost instantly, and gasped, scrambling back, the sudden jolt of fear giving him strength.

“Julia,” the man, Reynard, Quentin realized, purred, “a present? For me?”

Reynard crouched over Quentin, who flinched. Reynard leaned forward, and _sniffed_ him. Quentin cringed back, and Reynard grinned, horribly, toward Julia.

“Even with that thing inside him, he’s not nearly as special as you, sweetheart,” Reynard said, “but I suppose I can make do.”

And he reached out and caressed Quentin’s cheek.

Quentin shuddered, fear rippling through him. His legs slid uselessly against the slightly damp tiles. Julia said something, but there was a roaring in his ears, and then Reynard grabbed him, pulling him into a tight hold against his chest. He had a fist in Quentin’s hair, cranking his neck at an awkward angle, and Quentin couldn’t make out what he and Julia were yelling at each other, but he could hear the disturbing lack of a heartbeat in Reynard’s chest, the absence of it like the roaring in his ears, overwhelming.

He was shivering with fear, certain Reynard was about to eat his heart, like he’d eaten Richard’s. “Jules,” he whimpered, looking up at her with pleading eyes.

Julia’s head tilted, a curious, slightly detached look on her face, and she stepped forward, nearly breaching the wards.

Then Kady barreled around the corner, Penny right behind her, and she grabbed Julia and pulled her back just in time. “Jules, no,” she snapped, struggling with Julia, who was now fighting to get to Quentin through the trap she’d set for him. “Not like this,” Kady pled.

“Jules?” Quentin whimpered, Reynard’s grip on his hair tightening painfully.

“You’ve gotta let her out, Q,” Julia said, shifting in Kady’s grip. “He’s gonna kill us all if you don’t.”

Over him, Reynard tilted his head, looking between them. “Oh, Julia, you actually care about this one. Even without your shade.” There was something considering in his voice. He pulled on Quentin’s hair, using it like a handle to crank Quentin’s head back, forcing Quentin to meet his terrifying yellow eyes. “Maybe it would be more satisfying to break this one.” He grinned, a fox’s grin, and Quentin quailed.

Suddenly Alice, or the Niffin that had been Alice, was crouched beside him. Her teeth were bared, and she snarled, “Let me out, I’ll rip him to shreds.”

He shook his head, the tiniest of motions, in refusal. 

Penny lunged through the ward, trying to reach him, but suddenly he froze. Just stuck in the air, arm outstretched, and Quentin realized he couldn’t move either. He was frozen, entirely, just like when the Beast had first appeared in Brakebills and he was left helpless as Martin started to smother him with one large, six-fingered hand. He started to really panic, his heart thundering in his chest the only movement he was allowed, now. 

“You waited too long,” Alice growled, pacing on the edges of his vision.

He couldn’t move, he couldn’t move, and he couldn’t even scream as Reynard flung him across the tiles. Quentin’s motionless body slid with bruising force into the glass wall, and sprawled against it. 

“Reynard, don’t do this,” Julia said, her voice strained. “Don’t you dare.”

“Come in and stop me,” Reynard taunted, grabbing Quentin by the ankle and dragging him slowly, pointedly, back across the tile.

Out of the corner of his eyes he could see Penny frozen still, a look of helpless fury on his face.

And then Reynard ripped Quentin’s jeans down, and Quentin really panicked.

But there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

Reynard flipped him over, easily, smashed him into the slick tiles, and thrust into Quentin with one brutal motion. It hurt. Quentin wanted to scream, the pain was unbelievable, indescribable, and he couldn’t even react to it and everything was just trapped inside him. He could hear Kady screaming at Reynard, Julia shouting threats, but mostly there was just the awful pain.

Alice was growling, straining at the edges of the trap, eager to test herself against a god, and he couldn’t tell which pain was worse, everything blurring together. 

But then something changed. Maybe Reynard got distracted, maybe the freezing spell had a time limit, maybe Alice managed something, somehow. Whatever it was, Quentin realized suddenly that he was moaning. 

Which meant he was making a sound. 

Which meant he could speak.

He bit his lip, quickly, so Reynard wouldn’t notice. The taste of copper, familiar these days, burst across his tongue. It was too much, the pain was too much, and Alice was shrieking at Reynard, at Quentin, so ready to kill for him, for this. It was too much.

And so he finally gave in, and whispered through bitten lips, “Quentin says go free.”

With a vicious snarl, Alice ripped free of his back, Quentin arching against the sudden hurt, then slumping back to the floor. There was a shriek, something like an explosion of magic above him, and Reynard was ripped out of him.

The remaining bits of the freezing spell must have some loose, then, because Penny lurched forward, grabbed Quentin’s arm, and touched the button.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Penny and Quentin flee to the Neitherlands.

They blinked into the Neitherlands. The sudden silence was like hitting a wall. Quentin flailed, Penny’s hand on his shoulder suddenly unbearable, his head reeling.

“Q, c’mon, we can’t stay here,” Penny said, reaching for him.

Quentin scuttled away, starting to hyperventilate now that he could move again. He was pale, skin clammy with cold sweat. Penny looked around them, and Quentin remembered the homicidal locals. Penny reached for him again. “Q, c’mon, man, it’s me, Penny.”

“Penny,” Quentin gasped, fumbling for his pants. “I know, I know, just, um, don’t, please, don’t …”

Penny flung up both hands. “Don’t touch, I got it. But Quentin, we need to go.”

Quentin nodded jerkily. He was crying, but didn’t notice. He got his jeans up over his hips with a grimace of pain, and, using the edge of the fountain, pulled himself to his feet.

He’d already been weak, and had needed Julia’s help just to stand. With Alice gone, he actually felt stronger, and managed to limp after Penny, the other man scanning the horizon, dashing back and forth like a sheep dog, trying to herd Quentin along without actually touching him.

They made it two fountains over before the locals boiled out from the nearest gate, screaming.

Penny grabbed Quentin’s arm, ignoring his flinch this time. “Sorry, man,” he grunted, hauling Quentin bodily toward Fillory’s fountain. 

Quentin was muttering, “No, no, no,” but he was also doing his best to keep up, his steps unsteady and faltering. Penny took most of his weight, half-dragging him – but the locals were catching up. One flung a spell; Penny saw it, and pulled Quentin out of the way. Quentin made a small, hurt sound, and his legs went out from under him. Penny cursed, scooped Quentin up in his arms, and ran.

Quentin struggled in his grip, panicked moans spilling from between his bitten lips. Penny almost dropped him, cursed harshly, making him flinch, hugged him closer anyway.

Pressed against Penny’s chest, Quentin heard Penny’s heart, thundering with effort. And relaxed.

Penny didn’t question it, just used the sudden lack of struggle to pick up speed. The locals were on their heels when they hit the fountain, so Penny dove straight in, Quentin held tight, and with a splash they were through, and safe.

Fillory.

Quentin was whimpering in Penny’s hold, and Penny sagged against the nearest tree, and just breathed for a minute.

“Jesus,” Penny muttered, winded. He started to lower Quentin, who clung to his vest with surprising strength. “C’mon, man, we’re safe.”

Quentin nodded jerkily, forcing himself to let go. His hands were shaking. Penny set him on his feet, but his knees buckled, and he fell to the forest floor with a small cry. Penny knelt beside him. “Shit, Q, you okay? How bad are you hurt?”

“I dunno,” Quentin whimpered, pulling himself closer to the tree. “Penny, you gotta check on the others.”

Penny’s hands hovered over his skin without touching. “What about you?”

“I’ll be fine,” Quentin insisted, trying to smile. “I can message Eliot and Margo, go, check on the others.” Penny hesitated, and Quentin snapped, “They’re still trapped with Reynard, go!”

“Okay, okay, I’ll get the others and come right back.” He stood, grimaced. “Hang on, man.” And he vanished.

Just like that, Quentin was completely alone.

The forest was quiet around him, just the distant sounds of birds. His face crumpled. He started crying, and couldn’t stop.

Time passed. 

Something ran through the forest, nearby enough that the sound startled Quentin, made him draw in on himself, but whatever it was remained out of sight. 

Quentin sniffed, shifted against the tree trunk, tried to fasten his jeans more securely. The riveted button was missing, having ripped right through the button hole. Evidence of a god’s strength, he supposed, semi-hysterically. 

His parents had so often told him to smile when he was sad, that it would make him feel better, that the impulse had stuck, become instinct, and even now a sad smile creased his face. His hands were shaking, and he gave up on his jeans, brushed his hair out of his face. 

There was another sound, louder, closer, and Quentin sucked in a startled breath, pressing himself back against the tree trunk, hard. It sounded like footsteps, and he shrank, trying to ready a spell but unable to think of one, his breath coming quicker.

“Quentin?” A voice called, and a figure stepped out of the brush.

It was Eliot.

“Eliot?” Quentin asked, his voice small and wavering.

Eliot hurried forward. “Penny popped into the castle and said you were out here, before just, disappearing again, that man …” 

His voice faltered as he drew closer. “Q, what happened?”

Quentin couldn’t look up at him. He sniffed again, moved his hands vaguely as if to describe something, and his face crumpled. 

“Hey, hey,” Eliot said, kneeling beside him as he started to cry. “Q, what is it? Are you hurt?”

Quentin managed to nod. Eliot touched his shoulder, and Quentin half-expected his stupid body to flinch away from his dearest friend – but he didn’t. The hand rested on his shoulder, and it was warm, and Eliot was looming over him a bit but Eliot always did that, being so much taller. And it was … okay. Not okay, nothing was okay, but Eliot’s nearness wasn’t making him panic, the way Penny had, and something in Quentin managed to relax a little. 

He leaned into Eliot’s hand, and released a sob without meaning to.

“Shh,” Eliot said, and gathered Quentin into a hug. “Hey, it’s okay now.”

He held Quentin while he cried, and when Quentin had worn himself out again, asked, “Can you tell me what happened?”

“Reynard,” Quentin said, his voice hoarse. He sniffled, shifted his hold on Eliot’s shirt. 

“Holy shit, the trickster god that raped your hedge witch friend?”

Quentin flinched, hard, at the word, and Eliot froze. “Q?”

Quentin couldn’t answer the unspoken question. He nodded instead, then buried his face in the front of Eliot’s shirt.

“Okay, jesus, okay, we should.” Eliot was panicking, and his hold on Quentin tightened almost painfully – but Quentin welcomed it, feeling safe in Eliot’s arms in a way he hadn’t felt in ages, it seemed like. “The centaurs,” Eliot decided. “They’re the best healers in the kingdom.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot gets Quentin to the centaurs.

The same nurse who’d helped after the surgeries on his arm touched his hand gently as Eliot lowered him to the tall patient’s table. A burst of pain radiated through him, and he whimpered.

“Where’s the doctor?” Eliot snapped at the nurse, hands moving frantically, uselessly, now that he wasn’t holding on to Quentin.

“They will attend him soon,” she said, not at all thrown by his manner. “Be at peace.”

Quentin wanted that, badly. He stared up at the blue sky, obscured partly by the leafy branches of the trees among which the hospital was situated. A wind tossed the leaves, just toying with them. He could almost imagine floating up into those branches, into that sky, out of his useless body and finally free.

Eliot grabbed his hand and squeezed it. Quentin realized he was crying again, and squeezed back. He wanted to roll onto his side. He wanted to hide from the world, maybe especially from Eliot. He just wanted it all to be over. 

“Is there anything I can do?” Eliot asked again. His eyes were wet, like he might start crying too. Quentin squeezed his hand again, and shook his head.

“Just don’t leave,” he whispered.

“I won’t, I’ll be here,” Eliot said quickly, almost frantically. “You won’t be alone.”

“El …” he started weakly.

But there was the muffled sound of hooves, and the nurse said, “The doctor will see you now,” and the moment was lost.

The centaur approached briskly, and Quentin gripped Eliot’s hand tighter, his own knuckles bleaching white with the strength of his grip. Eliot grimaced, but didn’t protest.

The doctor was speaking, but for Quentin everything started to feel distant. Not entirely real. The centaur’s words were muffled, hard to make out, and Quentin couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from the wind-tossed branches.

Eliot spoke, somewhere in there, and then hands were pulling at his jeans. He knew what was happening, he knew they were helping him. He just couldn’t focus. The centaur looked him over through enchanted glass, spread a linen cloth over him, and slipped his jeans and torn underwear out from underneath, encouraged him to spread his legs.

It was like it was all happening to someone else, kind of. He watched the branches, and clutched at Eliot’s hand, and followed the centaur’s removed, emotionless instructions like he was hearing about this happening to someone else. There was pain, but it was muffled; and then there was a spark of magic, and he didn’t feel much of anything at all. A tugging sensation, his hips shifting. Wetness. 

It didn’t matter. He was up in the sky. Wind-tossed.

* * *

He didn’t know how long it went on for. Eliot had gotten a cloth from somewhere, and gently wiped the tears from his cheeks. Quentin blinked at him, and realized then that it was over.

At some point he’d been cleaned, and dressed in the soft healing garments he remembered from before.

He shivered, looked to Eliot. He’d lost time, he realized, and shivered harder. 

“Hey,” Eliot said, and his voice was clear, not muffled at all, and that was almost startling. “You okay?”

Quentin nodded, uncertain whether he was.

“You should get some rest,” Eliot continued, patting Quentin’s hand, the one still holding his left. Quentin looked at their linked hands, and realized Eliot’s fingertips were purple. He blinked, and tried to let go. His hand didn’t want to open, but he managed to loosen it enough that Eliot could pull free.

Eliot didn’t pull free, though some unidentifiable strain around his eyes relaxed. “Do you want to stay here for a while, or get back to the castle?”

Faced with a choice, Quentin froze. He didn’t know which would be better. It was peaceful here, and they could help if he needed more medical care. But Eliot had a kingdom to run, Quentin was distracting him from that, god, he was worse than useless, he was an active hindrance to his friends, no wonder Julia couldn’t find a better use for him.

“Hey, hey,” Eliot was saying, patting his hand again, and after a while it broke through and Quentin looked at him. “We don’t have to decide right now,” Eliot said, a different kind of strain on his face. “Just get some sleep, okay?”

Eliot nodded, and Quentin mimicked the motion, eyes fixed on Eliot’s face now rather than the trees. He was safe for now, Eliot would protect him, or at least get him away in time – and that thought was just enough to help him relax. Exhaustion poured over him abruptly, and pushed him into sleep.

* * *

He was dreaming of the Beast.

Not everything that had happened later, or even that terrible final battle, but of his first incursion into their world. Freezing his entire class and stepping through a mirror in a cloud of moths. In the dream the fluttering was all he could hear, and he was frozen, helpless to do anything as the Beast killed his professor, and then started killing students. This part hadn’t happened, but in the dream, he was trapped with the terrible knowledge that he had helped the Beast come here. He had helped the Beast kill everyone he knew.

Another student dropped, another, kids he’d barely gotten to know. In the dream, even frozen, Quentin could feel his heart hammering in his chest, pure terror coursing through him. The Beast killed Penny, then, and Quentin couldn’t do anything about it, he couldn’t move, and the Dean wasn’t coming, why wasn’t the Dean coming, and then Kady was dead, and the Beast was getting closer.

And Quentin couldn’t move.

And then everyone else was dead, Alice, and Eliot was there for some reason, he hadn’t been there and even in the dream this seemed odd but he watched the Beast rip Eliot apart and he couldn’t stop him he couldn’t even move and he thought his heart might just stop.

They were all dead, and it was just him, and the Beast, and the Beast put his awful, six-fingered hand over Quentin’s face to smother him – but this was a dream, and something changed, and Quentin was still frozen and still trapped by the Beast, but the Beast was somehow also Reynard, suddenly, the two situations blurring together, and it was the Beast smothering him but also Reynard leering down at him, terrible yellow eyes in a cloud of moths and he couldn’t move he couldn’t move

— he lurched out of sleep with a ragged scream. He was gasping, his chest felt compressed, like it had been stepped on, and he pressed his hand over his heart, feeling it pattering and racing in his chest.

It was dark. Quentin’s eyes flitted about and landed on Eliot’s dark curls, the only bit of him visible with how he was sleeping – awkwardly, his head resting on the wooden board that made up the top of the table, hand still gripped in Quentin’s, propped uneasily on a tall stool. It was a wonder he hadn’t fallen. It was a wonder Quentin’s dream hadn’t woken him up.

Sweat was drying on his skin, and he shivered, curling miserably on his side facing Eliot. The stone table wasn’t particularly comfortable, and while Eliot was there he wasn’t awake, he wasn’t _there_ , and Quentin stared at his dark hair a little fixedly, wishing his friend was awake but not willing to wake him.

The feeling of the dream hung over him like a pall, and he didn’t fall back asleep that night, watching Eliot until the sun rose.

The sun got a little higher, a little brighter, and Quentin watched Eliot’s hair, the details picked out by the light. Their hands were still linked, and Quentin flexed his fingers just a little, just occasionally, just to feel Eliot’s hand reflexively tighten around his. He was very carefully not thinking, or trying not to. His mind was a sort of blank, like a still pond or one of those zen sand gardens, actually, forcibly raked and smoothed flat, just the little ridges in ornamental lines to show there had ever been any turmoil.

Quentin would very much like his brain to behave like a zen garden. It wouldn’t, history suggested, but for now he clung to the image, and watched Eliot sleep.

After a while, Eliot stirred on his own, his back heaving with a deeper breath, then his head lifting suddenly to give a bleary yawn. Maybe he should’ve looked ridiculous; Quentin saw the creased cheek, the crazy hair, the rheumy eyes, and felt a touch safer.

Eliot sorted himself slowly, and Quentin watched awareness seep back into his eyes, visibly weighing him down. Quentin felt a pang at that, at putting another of his problems onto Eliot.

“Q,” Eliot said, patting his hand. “How are you feeling, do you need the nurse?”

“I’m okay,” Quentin murmured, staring at him.

“Okay, good,” Eliot said, resting his forehead on his hand for a moment. He clearly hadn’t slept well, but he still didn’t try to free his hand from Quentin’s.

Quentin blinked, and Eliot wasn’t there beside him. He blinked again, some distant part of him wondering if that would Eliot reappear. It didn’t work. Quentin flexed his hand, the one Eliot had been holding, and some unidentified emotion jolted through him. His face twisted into a frown.

“El?” he whispered. No one answered. He thought about calling louder.

But he was alone. What if Reynard had done this somehow? What if he were out there now, just waiting for Quentin to reveal that he was awake?

Quentin shuddered, eyes darting to the simple taupe curtains that marked off his room. They fluttered in the wind, and his heart jumped. Was that movement? A shadow? 

Quentin scrambled to the edge of the table, wanting to put his back against something. He was in the center of this curtained-off space, there was nowhere to hide. His breath was coming faster. 

He got his back against the stone carving, beneath the image of a centaur spearing a man in some great battle, and tried to eye every approach at once. It wasn’t really working, and it seemed like every time he looked in a new direction he could see movement in the corner of his eye, or a shadow at the periphery, and he had to look there again, make sure it wasn’t something dangerous. 

He was panting, chest heaving beneath the loose linen shirt. The curtained-off room seemed to waver before his eyes, greens and tans melting together. He blinked. Sweat ran into his eyes. He was breathing, but it felt like he wasn’t getting enough oxygen, each breath seemed deep but it wasn’t enough, he tried breathing more deeply, sucking in air, but he couldn’t get enough, he wasn’t getting enough, he couldn’t breathe, he grabbed his chest over his heart and it was thundering beneath his hand and he couldn’t breathe –

“Hey,” Eliot said, kneeling beside him. “Q, what happened?”

“El?” he panted, squinting.

“What’s wrong? Q?”

“Can’t breathe, can’t.”

“Okay, come here,” Eliot said, sitting beside him. He pressed his shoulder against Quentin’s, and it was Quentin’s wooden shoulder so he couldn’t actually feel Eliot but he could sense Eliot strong and solid next to him. “Breathe with me, okay?”

“Mmhmm,” he managed.

“Okay, come on, deep breaths,” Eliot said, breathing in slowly, and coaching Quentin to do the same.

Quentin tried, and flailed with one hand until he caught Eliot’s knee in a harsh grip. Eliot didn’t flinch away, just let him hold on.

Eventually Quentin’s breathing slowed. He leaned into Eliot. He felt wrung out, like he’d just run a mile. His eyelids drooped.

“Feeling better?” Eliot asked quietly.

Quentin sagged, his head coming down to rest on Eliot’s shoulder. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Thanks.”

“Anytime, Q,” Eliot said, not moving. 

Quentin’s grip shifted from Eliot’s knee, moving down to find Eliot’s hand again. His eyes wanted to close, but he forced them open, hung onto Eliot. And Eliot didn’t move.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin finds out what happened after Penny got them away.

Eliot called for the royal coach for the trip back to Castle Whitespire. The ride was mostly silent. Eliot tried to make small talk a couple of times, but Quentin was silent, distracted, staring out the window at the passing scenery.

It was Fillory, it was everything he’d ever wanted, but at the moment he couldn’t feel it. It was like he was watching the land move by through a fog; there wasn’t a fog, it was a clear day, and Quentin could see clearly but felt like he couldn’t see clearly, everything distant or strange. Through a glass darkly, he thought.

He sat sideways on the bench seat, curled in on himself. Eliot would’ve fit more easily across from him, but they crowded onto the same bench. Quentin still wouldn’t let go of his hand.

As they pulled up to the castle Margo ran down the front steps, not awkward even in her heels and runway-ready dress. “Eliot,” she called, hurrying to the coach. “What happened? Everyone else is back.”

Quentin perked up at that. “They’re okay? Who made it?”

“Everyone,” she reassured him quickly. “You’re the only one who was, uh, hurt.”

She looked strange, then, sympathetic but in a way he didn’t want to look at. He tucked himself further into the seat.

“C’mon,” Eliot said, tugging his hand gently. “Let’s get inside, okay?”

Quentin nodded jerkily, and let Eliot help him out of the coach. His legs still didn’t want to support him, and he wavered, not looking at the castle. He didn’t want to associate this place he loved with this horrible feeling.

But when they got inside, everyone wasn’t there. “Where’s Julia?” he asked immediately, looking at the others.

Penny looked down, weirdly sympathetic, and Quentin did not want to think about that so he looked to Kady, who at least looked pissed off like always.

“She’s in the warded room at Brakebills,” Kady explained. “Fogg locked her up there when we told him what she’d done.”

Quentin frowned, not sure what to think about that. Julia had … what Julia had done … she probably deserved some kind of punishment, but then again, she wasn’t really herself. He couldn’t blame her, could he?

While thinking, he’d wrapped his arms around his middle, protectively. The others noticed, and he saw them notice, and tried to force himself to stand upright, grimacing. “Reynard?” he asked.

It was Penny who answered this time. “We’re not sure.”

Quentin’s heart skipped a beat. “What do you mean?”

Kady shrugged. “When you let Alice’s Niffin go, she, uh …”

“There was an explosion,” Penny tried to explain.

“And?”

“We couldn’t find either of them,” Kady said, and her voice was almost gentle.

“Oh,” Quentin managed, then crumpled abruptly to the floor.

Eliot darted forward, trying to catch him – he wasn’t quick enough, and knelt beside Quentin on the entry hall’s flagstone floor. “Q?”

“I, uh,” he said, not looking at any of them. “I don’t feel so great.”

“Let’s get you to a room so you can rest,” Margo said, taking charge.

There was something comforting about Margo taking charge.

Eliot took Quentin’s elbow gently, and helped him back up. Quentin felt … sort of blank, and he leaned into Eliot heavily.

Eliot helped him, both moving slowly, to a smaller room near his own. It didn’t have such a majestic roof, and felt cozier and safer for it. Eliot settled him in the luxuriously made bed, with linen sheets and silk coverlets, and Quentin grabbed his hand.

“Stay?” he asked, not looking at Eliot.

“I’ll be here,” Eliot said, and sat on the bed next to him.

With Eliot’s comforting presence beside him on the big bed, Quentin was able to sink into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

Quentin curled himself in soft sheets. He watched the light move across the soft blankets, across his own hand, but never stirred to follow it. Eliot came in and out, sometimes, and Margo came in and out, other times. They were checking on him. They seemed worried about him. He couldn’t really bring himself to muster a response. He was … numb. Everything felt distant, and he was in this bed, and nothing was happening, and he didn’t have to worry about anything, and for now, that was perfect.

Eliot made him eat. Eliot brought him food and when he wouldn’t sit up placed broad hands under his armpits and levered him up the bed, propped him against pillows and fed him mugs of broth, ignoring Quentin’s small protests. Quentin didn’t want to eat, his stomach felt full already, or something, but he also didn’t have the energy to stop his friend.

Eliot sat up with him, the first night, until Quentin asked in a small voice if he would at least sit on the bed. After that, they slept with Quentin curled in Eliot’s arms. He felt safe there, not trapped at all. If he still mostly didn’t actually sleep, mostly dozing until he dipped into a dream and startled himself awake, Eliot didn’t seem to realize. Margo crept into the room at odd hours, and Quentin watched her through barely slitted lids, tracking her progress around the room. She patrolled, like a sentry, and Quentin felt a little safer every time she came through.

It had been three days of this, maybe four. Eliot didn’t say anything, but he gathered Quentin up in his arms and carried him to a tub of steaming water. Quentin thought he’d rather not bother with this, but let himself be lowered in. The water was just this side of too hot, and stung in wounds he’d rather not think about. Light came in through the high windows, and Quentin focused on that. Eliot scrubbed his hair, his back, gently, under his arms, across his chest. No lower. 

Moving slowly, Quentin took the sponge from him, ran it up his legs. His feet were strangely dirty, for having been in bed for days, and he scrubbed them, then again, harder, then again. Eliot put a hand on his shoulder, and he stopped. Eliot took the sponge back. They didn’t talk. Eliot didn’t mention the unscrubbed parts of Quentin, just pulled him up out of the water and wrapped him in a towel. Quentin’s arms crept around Eliot’s waist, and held on, tightly. Eliot held very still, and after a moment one large hand came up to rest, feather-light, on Quentin’s back. Eliot’s heart thrummed beneath Quentin’s ear, and Quentin breathed, and closed his eyes.

* * *

Penny returned without Kady. Eliot dragged Quentin out of bed for the meeting, over breakfast, though Quentin would have preferred to stay. Eliot could have told him about the meeting later. He didn't need to hear what Penny had to say, he thought. 

Margo shoved a mug of tea in Quentin's hands, so hot that it was almost painful to hold. He didn't set it down, just huddled in his chair next to Eliot and watched ripples move through the dark liquid. His hands were shaking, he realized.

“Where's Kady?” Margo asked as Penny scarfed down a pastry.

He shook his head. “She's working on something else.”

“What, exactly?” Margo demanded. “Is she hunting Reynard on her own?”

“No, he's …” Penny shrugged. “We think he's dead.”

Eliot leaned back, and only then did Quentin realize how tense the other man had been.

“Well, that's a relief,” Margo said, though she was rolling her eyes. “You could have led with that.”

“We're not sure,” Penny said defensively. “Kady's working on the Julia situation, so we're a little preoccupied.”

“What about Julia?” Quentin asked.

Everyone looked at him, and he shrank a little.

Penny cleared his throat. “She thinks she can get Julia's shade back.”

“What?” Eliot asked.

Margo demanded, “We're helping that hedge bitch?” 

“Is that possible?” Quentin asked, his voice small.

“Fogg thinks so,” Penny shrugged. “He did research on it in a different timeline, I guess.”

Eliot sighed. “Does she need any help?”

“Naw, we've got this.” Penny looked shifty for a moment. “There's something else.”

“Do we want to know?” Margo asked warily.

“No, but you might need to. People have been showing up. They, um, used to be Niffins.”

“Used to be?” Eliot asked.

“As in not anymore,” Penny said irritably. “And no, nobody knows why.”

“Alice?” Quentin asked.

Penny shook his head. A bolt of grief shot through Quentin, and he raised his trembling hands to hide his face. For just a second he'd thought maybe she was okay, and to have that snatched away again …

Eliot put a hand on Quentin's shoulder, and he leaned into it.

“It's not a good thing, anyway,” Penny tried to explain. “None of them have shades. It's kind of a problem actually.”

“Do they still have magic?” Margo asked, leaning forward. 

Penny frowned thoughtfully. “No … why do you ask?”

“No reason,” she said, but thoughts were turning behind her eyes.

“Maybe we could ask Ember what he thinks,” Eliot said, then continued less hopefully, “if we could find him.”

Penny tilted his head. “I could help with that, I guess.”

“Really?” Margo asked skeptically. “You're not itching to help your girlfriend jailbreak Julia's soul?”

Penny looked down. “My hands are still fucked up. There's not a lot I can do for her until I get them fixed.”

Margo looked satisfied. “So you think petitioning a god might help.”

“It's worth a try. My only other option is that prick Mayakovsky, or an insane contract with the library.” He shrugged. “I'm running out of ideas.”

“I'll go,” Quentin said softly.

“Are you sure that's a good idea?” Eliot asked, a concerned look on his face.

“If something is happening to Niffins, then I want to know what it is.” Quentin lifted his non-wooden shoulder in a crooked shrug. This was the most he’d spoken in days, and his throat was starting to hurt.

Penny thought she was dead. One look, and Quentin knew. He never knew what Penny was thinking, but this was so obvious that Quentin couldn't keep looking at the expression on Penny’s face.

But all Penny said was, “Sure. Let's ask Ember.”

“Do you want me to go with you?” Eliot asked, his eyes big and solemn. 

Quentin tried to smile for him. “Don't you need to plan your wedding?”

Eliot looked torn. “It is in three months, and there is a lot to organize …”

“Then Penny and I will be fine,” Quentin assured him, before looking to Penny. “Right?”

“Yeah, we can handle it,” Penny said, though he was looking at Quentin strangely. “I can't travel us there.”

“Take the coach,” Margo suggested, glancing between them. “Just, whatever you find out, come back here after.”

Penny softened slightly. “Yeah, of course.”

Quentin nodded, looking down.

* * *

Penny didn't say much in the carriage. Quentin didn't say anything at all, so he had no room to complain, but for some reason it made him nervous. He kept track of Penny out of the corner of his eye, mostly watching the scenery roll by. Penny watched him quietly, not saying anything. Part of Quentin worried the whole time that Penny might say something about what had happened. But Penny didn't. Maybe he was reading Quentin's mind, and knew he couldn't talk about it. Maybe he just didn't care. 

Quentin would take either at this point.

When the coach stopped and they climbed down, the temple looked as Quentin remembered - desolate, the remains of decayed flowers scattered about the stonework. 

“Do you think he's even here?” Penny asked, finally breaking the silence. “This place looks deserted. 

“It was like this before, when, um, Julia and I …”

“Yeah, I got it,” Penny said, waving his words away. He took a few steps forward, paused until Quentin caught up, then ducked around the stone column.

Quentin stared at the space where he had been, and froze for just a moment. 

“Yo, how do we get inside?” Penny called.

Quentin started, and followed him around the column. “It's a, uh, handprint. Thing. Carved in the stone.” He stopped by Penny, and scanned the stone until he spotted it. “Here.”

Penny poked the carving with a finger, pressed his hand to it gingerly in just a brief touch, then pressed harder. “How does it work?”

“You have to, um, blood,” Quentin stammered, cringing at the thought of cutting himself. 

Penny scowled, pulling out a small pocket knife and quickly gashing his palm and pressing it to the stone. 

Nothing happened.

“Maybe he isn't here,” Quentin said, defeated.

“No, come on, let's try yours.”

Quentin held out his hand for the knife. Penny handed it over, and asked, “You okay to do this?”

Quentin nodded, and made a small slice across his hand, hissing at the sting. But when he placed his hand to the stone, nothing happened.

Or, at least, it seemed that way.

“What the hell?”

Quentin turned around, and saw Penny staring up at glittering letters that hovered in midair. “Gone to sea,” he read. 

“Seriously, what the hell.”

Quentin sighed. “I guess this means a quest.”

“Son of a bitch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is ... a little harder to write, so updates will come more slowly. Thanks for sticking with me!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After learning of Ember's absence, three of them set out on a quest to locate the missing god.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the updates on this one are so delayed. It's honestly the most difficult to write, and will continue to be updated very slowly. Thanks for sticking with me!

Quentin and Penny took the coach back to Castle Whitespire. Penny complained most of the way, though there was something performative about it, as if he were complaining just to fill the silence.

Quentin curled himself into a corner across from Penny, feeling a little strange, a little distant. He hadn't been out of bed in days, and here he was riding in a coach across Fillory. He felt sort of exposed. But also … he thought he might be hungry.

In the castle, Eliot pulled himself away from a table full of place settings long enough to talk to them. They sent for Margo, who was slightly damp and who seemed really irritated for some reason. 

“So now we need a ship,” Margo complained. “How will you even figure out where Ember's gone?”

“I could just bounce to the islands by myself,” Penny offered. 

Quentin felt a sudden jolt of panic, and grief, and Penny's eyes softened. “But if we both go,” Penny continued, “a boat would help.”

Fen had been occupying herself on the other side of the room, and she came over then, and said, “I know the ship you need.”

“You do?” Eliot asked. Sometimes it was like he forgot that he had a wife, and Quentin could understand that - honoring a deal made by someone else had been one of the most noble things Eliot had ever done, but marriage definitely went against his nature. He’d always had a boy a season, it seemed like, never staying with any of them for long. Except for Mike, but Quentin didn’t like to think about that. It still seemed a little unfair to Fen, who had always been perfectly nice to him. He supposed Eliot would know more about it, though.

“The Muntjac,” Fen said firmly. “Fastest ship in Fillory.”

“Oh, well, that sounds … perfect,” Eliot said, shrugging. He looked at Quentin then, and his eyes were almost too sympathetic, too kind. “Maybe a nice boat quest will do you good,” he suggested.

“Yeah,” Quentin said, swallowing. “Just what I need.”

“I wish I could go with you,” Margo said wistfully.

Quentin remembered that night before the Trials, when Margo had roofied him, but had also confided that she’d loved the Fillory books, too, and that she used to fantasize about being ambassador to the Outer Islands. With that in mind, he said, without thinking, “Why don’t you?”

She stared at him for a moment. “Well, I have … too much to do around here,” she said, flustered.

“Not really,” Eliot said. “I have this wedding to plan, but I can handle that.”

“Can you?” she asked, tone incredulous. “Because you haven’t so far.”

Eliot looked slightly ashamed at that. “I suppose I could be less particular about the details.”

Margo leaned back. “Maybe we could get someone from earth to help,” she said speculatively. 

“Who is there?” Eliot asked. “Todd?”

“I was thinking Josh,” Margo returned. “He knows how to party.”

“Hm, true …” Eliot acknowledged.

“Penny, could you get Josh with the button?” Margo asked him. “I would love to come along, if things here were under control.”

“I resent that,” Eliot said, “but also, thank you, Bambi.”

Penny shrugged, said, “Yeah, no problem,” and blinked out.

Quentin stared at where he’d been, and wished that he’d asked Penny to check on Julia while he was there. He shivered, and wrapped his arms around himself.

“Are you sure about this?” Eliot asked him, voice very gentle.

Quentin wavered for a moment, then nodded. “I think I need to, uh, I don’t know. Do something.” He frowned, looking away from Eliot’s understanding face. “I just, uh, I don’t guess you could come.”

It wasn’t a question.

Eliot looked very torn. “I want to,” he said. 

“But you can’t,” Quentin finished for him. “I know.”

Eliot approached him slowly, very slowly, and pulled him into his arms. Quentin rested his cheek against Eliot’s chest, listening to his heart. It was a good heart. Eliot pressed his chin into Quentin’s hair, and when he spoke Quentin could hear his voice rumble in his chest, and could feel his jaw moving against his head. “You be careful,” Eliot said. “And come back as soon as you find out anything.”

“We will,” Quentin said, hugging Eliot back. “I promise.”

“I’ll look out for him,” Margo said, not joining their hug. 

“I know you will, Bambi.”

Quentin wanted to say he didn’t need looking after, but didn’t. The part of him that wanted to be independent was much smaller than the part that was startlingly glad Margo would be with him.

* * *

The Muntjac turned out to be a small clipper, elaborately carved and bigger on the inside. _Like the TARDIS_ , Quentin thought as they moved around the ships interior. The thought would normally have been gleeful, but everything felt distant, still. Muted. In a way he was glad.

Margo called dibs on the state room, of course, leaving Penny and Quentin to take smaller rooms - still decked out for royalty, just … smaller. Quentin set his small bag of things on the rather large bed, and poked around the room curiously. It had wardrobes rather than closets - he poked his head in one, and found dozens of shirts and jackets in the Fillorian style. 

Quentin pulled out a violet number, holding it up to his chest. It seemed like it would fit - he pushed one arm into a sleeve, reaching around his back with the other. His hand groped for the opening, caught on a button, went into a pocket - then it was on, and it fit very nicely, not too tight in the shoulders but not baggy around his waist. He ran both hands up and down the smooth fabric, feeling the rougher embroidery and the pinpricks of small beads and jewels. 

He didn’t know when they’d had time to do all of this, make him a full wardrobe of clothing. He felt a sudden pang in his chest. He pressed a hand to the place where it hurt. Breathed.

* * *

Dressed in new clothes, Quentin ventured out onto the deck. The sun was shining down on them, the ship cutting neatly through a blue sea that was getting deeper and deeper shades of blue as they got further from Fillory. Looking out over that sea, Quentin felt small. The distance to the horizon was hard to calculate, and he stood by the railing and the wind hit his face and tossed his hair, and Quentin felt … infinitesimal. In a good way. In a way that Reynard wouldn’t be able to track down, out in the endless blue. He felt … free.

The captain offered him a looking glass, and Quentin accepted it with a small nod. Sweeping the lens across the horizon, he saw what seemed like endless blue. He directed the glass behind them, and watched the receding coastline for a while, the trees gently tossed by seabreeze, distant animals moving along the shore. The steady wind blew on his face and he smelled salt and watched the sun glimmer in the blue water.

In moments like this, he felt like he could be okay.

* * *

Nights were harder.


End file.
